


in the window of the tallest tower

by fallencrest



Category: Mob City
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Sharing a Bed, ben siegel is annoyingly straight, but only a little weirded out by the gay thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallencrest/pseuds/fallencrest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heatwave hits in March and, damn, if Ben Siegel didn't find sharing a bed with Sid Rothman easier in winter - but that doesn't mean he's going to kick him out now. </p><p>Or, winter's habits die hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the window of the tallest tower

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first ever [Mob City Monday](http://mob-city-fanworks.tumblr.com/post/84644121342/spread-the-word-the-first-mob-city-monday-is-in).

The heatwave hits in the middle of the night, or it feels like it does. It isn't supposed to get real hot in March, not even in New York, but it figures in this town the weather goes from snow to heatwave in a matter of weeks. 

Ben Siegel wakes up, goes to stretch, legs unfolding from where they're stuck to themselves with sweat behind the knee, and stops within a couple of inches when he feels his chest push up against a wall that shouldn't be there. The wall yields slightly at the contact, the way no real wall would, and Ben remembers in that vague twilight of half-waking that Sid Rothman shared his bed all through the winter and is still there. The wall of Sid's shoulder blades bucks slightly back against Ben's chest then recoils from the heat of it. 

All through winter, they'd pressed against each other close as they could, bodies meeting back-to-chest and tangling together at the calves, wrapped in layers of vests and shirts and cotton pajama pants, yesterday's socks providing the only real barrier against the fact that one of their two blankets was at least a half foot too short. They'd had the sense last night, at least, to strip down to vests and shorts but the warmth of the evening had been nothing compared to this. 

Ben shifts back a little, finding himself just inches from the edge of the bed. The creaky old single had belonged to his big brother, before the aforesaid had moved out that autumn, which was how come Ben had landed it. Got a room of his own, to boot, privilege of the eldest kid in the household, though the room was little more than an airing cupboard and, if possible, even more exposed to the changes of the elements than the rest of the Siegels' damn tenement apartment. 

If they'd been a smaller family, the room would've been a bit of corridor space, the way out onto the fire escape. As such, there's a big window with a rotting frame holding court over the bed, curtainless and letting in a draft as well as the light. The door out to the fire escape rattles when there's a gale and sometimes even in a light breeze on account of how high up the damn building they are. On a summer day, the wind ought to be a mitzvah but by some trick of physics Ben might've learnt if he'd stuck with school, it only serves to turn the place into an oven at night, a pressure which keeping the damn door open does nothing to relieve. 

Ben moves again, trying to get comfortable and peel himself away from Sid without hanging too far off the edge of the mattress. The irritation rises up in him, rousing him from his half-sleep, brain swimming and swelling with the heat, and he shoves at Sid sharply with an elbow not thinking of anything beyond his sudden urgent annoyance. “Hey, Sid, Sid,” he says, voice coming out loud and brash as he always is when he's het up over something, “Move over would ya?”

Sid groans a little and presses back into Ben. He nestles there for a second with a little growl emitting from the back of his throat, then shifts away in discomfort at the warmth, brow creased with a frown as he tilts his head up to face Ben. His eyes open slowly and Ben watches him, anger not gone exactly but put on hold for a minute, as he waits for Sid to emerge into something like consciousness. 

The grace period doesn't last too long before Ben says, “I said move over,” prodding Sid's shoulder with a hand, half regretting it as he feels the throb of heat that Sid's skin gives off. The heat from Sid's body is like the warmth of a fire, it radiates off him the same way, and Ben wishes it had felt that warm in winter, when they'd pressed together, both of them as cold as empty china cups, hollow and aching with it.

Sid shifts away toward the wall, presses himself right up against it, legs straightening out, turning in against it with his face angled down toward the mattress. Ben frowns, rolls over so he has his back to Sid and takes a frustrated breath.  
“This fucking heat,” Ben says, intending the words to reach out and break the ice a little. And, fuck, wouldn't he just kill for some ice right about now. “It's nuts. You ever know it to be this hot in March, Sid?”

“Yeah,” Sid says, responding to the first part of Ben's speech and then, “I don't know. But it's damn hot.”

There's something in Sid's tone, something coiled tight and bitten out that Ben doesn't like much. 

He moves again, rolls onto his back and looks across at Sid, all tension, skin gone strange with the sheen of sweat, glistening where it's caught the pre-dawn light. 

“You good, Sid?” he asks, quieter than before, no longer challenging or provoking.

“I should go.” Sid says. He moves a little as if he's about to get up, though he's careful not to press into Ben. “I should've gone in January.”

And Ben reaches out again, heedless and quick to act as ever. He puts a hand on Sid's shoulder, weighs him down with the strength of his hand. Sid pushes back experimentally, until they're half-wrestling and Ben presses Sid back into the mattress so Sid's lying on his back, taking up most of the bedspace whilst Ben leans over him, propped up and twisted on his side. 

“You're going nowhere.” Ben says, more insistent than he might've meant, “and January is the coldest month of the year. What are you, stupid?”

Their eyes meet and they stare each other down, Sid's eyes look dangerous and dark in the half-light and Ben has this feeling like he ought to look away. 

“Fine.” Sid says, though there's some anger in it. And he pushes up and out of Ben's now-slack grasp to turn and face the wall again.

Ben lets out an angered huff of breath, lets his frustration out on the vest he decides it's high time he removed, peeling the fabric away from where it clings to his sweat slick skin and throwing it to the floor with more force than is warranted. 

He collapses onto his back again and the bed sinks with his weight. Sid ought to have moved with it, bumped companionably against him, but he's still hugging the wall like he's clinging onto it for dear life.

“Hey Sid,” Ben says again, “you don't gotta curl up like that. There's more room. How the hell you think you're gonna sleep like that?”

“I'm fine.” Sid says, “Go back to sleep.” 

“Hey,” Ben says, tone all tender, the way it rarely is unless he's trying to placate a broad or his mother, “hey,” and he puts his hand up on Sid's hip, where the bones of his pelvis jut out at an angle, bone stretching taut the skin. “What's wrong?”

Sid tenses at the touch, pushes Ben's hand away, but Ben puts it right back where it was, his immediate response to any resistance being to push back whatever the case. 

“Don't,” Sid says.  
But Ben doesn't listen, never knew how to listen, and they have a silent fumbling war of hands, both of Sid's working to brush away Ben's, where it grips at Sid's hip and then Ben, escalating, tries to find the seam where Sid's vest has ridden up, stuck to Sid's skin, to reach underneath and pull it off. 

“Come on,” Ben says, “It's too hot for-”

But Sid jabs him in the ribs with an elbow and Ben, caught unawares, lets go and watches, dazed, as Sid sits up finally and peels the vest off himself, turning to look at Ben when he says “Happy now?” and throws the vest to the floor where it joins Ben's and their discarded blankets. 

He stares down at Ben with anger in his eyes and Ben just laughs, “Sure. But anyone ever tell you you need to loosen up a little?”

“I'm plenty loose,” Sid says, lying back on his back and spreading out now, like he's putting on a show, and the shift in his hips directs Ben's eyes downwards.

“You shoulda said,” Ben says.

“You shoulda gone back to sleep,” Sid says, raising his eyebrows like it's a challenge.

It's not a new thing. How could it be after a winter of sleeping pressed together and both of them teenage boys? It became apparent pretty fast that these things were going to happen. Ben had got through a half-sleepless night or two before the night he'd given in and jerked off, sat on the edge of the bed and let Sid, when Sid woke up, let Sid nestle up behind him and lend a hand. Ben had closed his eyes, leant back, and tried not to think whose hand it was.

It had taken maybe a month after that before Ben had caught Sid in a similar predicament and brashly, foolishly, rushed in to return the favour. He'd been bad at it, worse than Sid, too rough and uncomfortable about it, hadn't even spat into his hand to make it smoother. But Sid had groaned and bucked into his hand, had said Ben's name under his breath and come before Ben could freak out enough to bail. 

That had been the only time all winter that it had happened that way around. 

Ben had a feeling Sid was just better at hiding it, knew some mornings he woke up to the smell of it and Sid had the grace to look at least a little ashamed when he got up in the morning and went straight to go wash. Still, Ben could count the times Sid had done for him on one hand, though barely, and each time Sid had been utterly silent and refused to meet his eye. 

And now there Sid is, sprawled out, done hiding, and Ben thinks he owes Sid this. 

Sid, as if he's sensed Ben's reluctance, the way he's stalling, caught and staring, stops sprawling after a moment and says, “it's fine, you don't gotta,” and goes to sit up. He gets most of the way there before Ben reacts. 

It isn't calculated, isn't backed with any kind of intention other than the determination that he's going to do right by Sid, but Ben moves and pins Sid down bodily. His legs straddle Sid, one on either side of Sid's narrower frame, and he has one hand pinning Sid down at the shoulder. 

Their eyes meet, Sid's shocked, pupils blown wide, and Ben smiles a wicked kind of a smile, surprising himself when he finds there's something genuine there, some kind of thrill in having Sid here like this, Sid trapped and in his power and taken aback the way he rarely seems to be by the things Ben does. 

Ben breaks the gaze, knowing how easily it could turn uncomfortable, knowing how the power of a look works, because he's used a look like that to spook boys and men both out on the streets. He breaks the gaze, and he spits into his right hand, his left still holding Sid down. 

He meets Sid's eyes again, just for a second after that, telegraphing his intent, before he reaches down, lets his eyes follow his hand as he finds the worn elastic of Sid's underwear and works his hand under and inside, and pulls out Sid's cock. 

The angle's awkward, so different from touching his own cock, and it's hard not to think about the fact that it's Sid, that it's Sid's dick in his hand, how different it is, how he can't tell if he's doing a good job, doing it right, except by listening to Sid's breath, looking back up to see how Sid's eyes flutter closed as Ben's hand slides back down to the base, not quite smooth but about as gentle as he can make it, all things considered. 

Ben can tell that Sid's trying and failing to keep his breathing even from the way it hitches, caught in his throat. He can see all the little ways Sid's losing control. Sid has one hand pressed hard into the mattress; the other comes up to grip Ben's left arm at the wrist, just over where it's holding him down. Sid's hips buck, but Ben can tell he's trying to keep still; his hips buck and then he presses himself rigid into the bed. Ben tries to keep himself from looking up at Sid's face, at the way Sid's eyes are open again, gazing up at him, at his neck and bare chest more than his face but looking all the same. Ben can't help remembering how he always closes his eyes when he lets Sid do this for him. 

Still, Ben has this energy, this manic determination not to lose his nerve, and it doesn't take more than about ten strokes in all, ten irrhythmic movements back and forth up Sid's cock, not even time for Ben to consider trying anything else, before Sid's done for. His hips jerk again and he grips Ben's wrist even harder, like he's holding on for fear of falling, and he's looking up at Ben's face, Ben trying to look anywhere but at Sid, wanting to look out the window into the city to preserve some of the privacy of the thing, and trying not to let the distaste show on his face when he feels the unaccustomed warmth of Sid's cum on his hand. 

He wants to feel the same satisfaction he gets with another man's blood on his hands and almost could, except for how it's all wrong, except for how Sid's lying there under him, grip gone slack, breathing heavy and uneven, saying “oh fuck, Ben, oh fuck.” And Ben can't bring himself to look down at his handiwork and feel that kind of visceral pride in how he's undone Sid, just pulls his hand away, pushes himself up with the hand on Sid's shoulder and goes into the bathroom to try to wash the feeling away along with the evidence. 

 

Sid's asleep when he gets back or he's pretending to be. He's barely moved, still taking up more than half the bed, and still blanketed in the scent of the thing they'll likely never speak of. And Ben's glad that Sid's stayed, even as he feels a faint annoyance at the fact of the whole incident and at how difficult he figures it'll be to fall asleep. 

He realises, obscurely, as he lies there, that the whole affair as taken the edge a little off the heat but figures maybe that's just the result of the cold water he splashed over his face and neck after he was done washing up his hands. Or maybe it's just that it was an adequate distraction for a while, giving him something to think of other than the way his skin is sticking to itself with sweat wherever it touches. Ben thinks it maybe works the same way as how he never notices the ache of a bruise, the pulling open of a half-healed cut, as long as he's beating on a guy or running for his life.  
He remembers to feel the heat now, and it washes over him along with the memories of Sid's uneven breathing and involuntary movements and Ben feels it like the annoyance of an itch he knows scratching at won't heal.

He lies there, expecting something more than annoyance to come over him, waiting for a larger anxiety or anger to overtake it. He waits for indignation, disgust, and rejection, for a desire never to see Sid again, but nothing comes. He feels only the oppressive density of heat, a faint distaste at the smell and the deed and the idea of another man, and then, breaking like the sun submerging itself in covering cloud, he feels an odd kind of gladness at paying Sid back. He did the right thing by Sid, gave him what he deserved, did for Sid the way Sid always did for him; and he knows that Sid is where he should be, right here, for all that that comes with its little inconveniences. 

He shoves Sid a little with his shoulder and Sid rolls over with a little groan, body turning to face the wall, giving over the space naturally and without protest, hardly stirring from his sleep. 

Ben curls in around him, preserving a little distance in acknowledgement of the heat, and finally, easily, falls back asleep, for an hour or two at least.


End file.
